


predator

by triskadancer



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood, Broken Bones, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Murder, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, crazy twin shenanigans, they just kiss again sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triskadancer/pseuds/triskadancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mukuro knows she is a very good soldier, but not a very good civilian (or sister).</p>
            </blockquote>





	predator

It had been a bad night. There had been a lot of yelling, and throwing things. Mukuro couldn't even remember what had set her off (because she was a _terrible_ sister) because Junko's moods and thoughts and words were always rapid-fire, and it was sometimes impossible to follow her leaps. I t was one of those times where Junko seemed to forget she even _had_ a sister, where she was just screaming defiant rage at the world itself and lashing out in any way she could. So really, Mukuro mostly just sat there, just in case she was needed. Occasionally she had to duck out of the way once in a while as another little glass pot of makeup exploded above her head. It really wasn't so bad. Certainly less dangerous than any warzone.

It took a long time (it always took a long time) for Junko to tire herself out. She strode carelessly through the broken glass to collapse in an exhausted heap next to Mukuro on the bed, letting out a final irritated, huffy sigh. Mukuro waited (she was _very_ good at waiting),  quiet, listening. She knew not to speak. She never knew the right thing to say. 

“It's okay, Muku-nee.” Mukuro blinked, questioningly, and Junko continued blithely on, as casually callous as she always was. “I know you don't _mean_ to be so completely disappointing.”

There was that familiar ache,  almost nostalgic, the feeling of being home. All she could do was avert her eyes and apologize, the motions as familiar to her as disassembling a gun.

And Junko just let out a tired little laugh and caught her shirt collar in one sharp hand and pulled her down beside her on the bed, the better to curl up against, and said, “I  _know._ Now shut up.”

So she did.

 

Of course the next day Junko demanded to go shopping.

Or maybe  _demanded_ was the wrong word.  _Demanded_ meant she was somehow asking for Mukuro's approval. Or including her in the decision at all. Junko was going to go shopping and Mukuro was going with her and that was that, really,  so they went.

First stop was makeup, of course, to replace last night's ammunition. Junko swept through with military precision, snapping up one thing here, another there, throwing them carelessly over her shoulder for Mukuro to catch and carry.  She was only satisfied by the time Mukuro was sure she had more than double whatever she'd destroyed. She strutted to the checkout, twirling her glittery gold card and grinning at the stunned clerk as she bagged their goods, and Mukuro thought they had almost got through it safely. But then Junko winked as she snatched up the bag, her strychnine smile in place, singing out “You  really should try some of your own products sometime,  you know? Hide those fucking zits! ” and Mukuro ducked her head, avoiding the clerk's stricken look, and rushed after her sister.

Junko breezed through store after store, always grabbing an armful of clothes (getting Mukuro to carry them), trying on everything, losing patience, throwing everything back (Mukuro put them away), with the occasional snipe at salespeople, just to mix it up. Sometimes she stopped, admired herself, turned to ask, “Muku-nee, what do _you_ think about this one?”

She blinked, and responded on cue, “You look beautiful.” It was always true.

And Junko just snorted, rolling her eyes, “ _God,_ Mukuro, you _always_ say that, I don't know why I even bother asking.” Mukuro didn't know either. “You're so fucking predictable. I shouldn't expect much else from a stupid _soldier,_ my mistake!” And Mukuro nodded and swallowed hard and trotted along at her heels.

Of course, someone recognized her (people always recognized Junko, their gaze slid smoothly over Mukuro, just some shadow that brilliant Enoshima-san cast). Some poor girl about their age, forgettably pretty and so, so excited to see her idol. Junko noticed (she always noticed) and stopped and gave her that winning, dazzling smile. The poor girl rushed over, all stumbles and stutters, telling Junko how inspiring and gorgeous she was, and Junko basked in it, until she had the misfortune to ask,

“Oh, Enoshima-san, I want to go into modeling too! Do you have any advice?”

Mukuro winced.

Junko's carnivore grin widened.

“Of course I do!”

And the girl beamed up at her (Mukuro bit her tongue) and Junko leaned forward, catlike and conspiratorial, like she was about to share some great trade secrets.

“Don't fucking _bother_ , sweetheart, you're _way_ too short and fat and plain, they'd eat you alive.”

Her face froze, then shattered, tears welled up in her eyes (Mukuro had to look away) and Junko laughed, turning on one needlepoint heel, crowing back over one shoulder, “But _maybe_ if you starve and puke and fuck enough you might get to dress me one day!” and left with a spring in her step, and Mukuro sighed and followed after her.

Mukuro had hoped (she shouldn't have) that that was the last stop of the day, but of course it wasn't. Lacquered nails clamped around her arm (Mukuro didn't flinch, even when they dug in tight) and Junko dragged her along this time, snatching things up left and right, comparing them against Mukuro's plain townclothes. She tutted and sneered and stared up at Mukuro's face, blowing a stray blonde strand out of her face, drawling “Do you own _anything_ that isn't black, white, or beige?”

Mukuro shifted uncomfortably, steel rack pressing hard against her narrow back, clasping hands behind her dutifully as Junko held up more outfits. “Green and grey?”

“Jesus _Christ,_ Mukuro, _seriously?”_ but she didn't say it too harshly, and gnawed at her lower lip, and held up something else. “What about this?”

Mukuro eyed the too-short skirt, the thin top, Junko's amused expression, and shrugged awkwardly.

Junko gave one of her award-winning pouts, fluttered her gorgeous lashes, purred, “Aw, Muku-nee, don't you want to look pretty for me?” and Mukuro couldn't help but stutter wordlessly, lost like a deer in the eyes of a predator. Junko's harsh, mocking laughter bubbled up again and she chirped, “You're such a fucking bore. Can't you be a little less disappointing and ugly for _one day?_ ”

That's how it always was with Junko. Sugar-sweet, pulling you off-guard, drawing you in just close enough to _bite._ She should have known better. Her gaze dropped, studying the whorls in the standard mall carpet, the fluorescent lights feeling too bright and hard, and murmured, “Sorry.”

She caught the clothes  flung  at her automatically, and almost put  them back on the rack in autopilot until she realized  they were different. A jacket, a shirt, a skirt (but longer, sharper, it suited her). She stared a little more intently, then questioningly up at Junko, who stood with her hands on her narrow hips, tapping one foot, eyebrow quirked.  _“Well,_ is that better?” She barely waited for Mukuro's hesitant nod before  throwing her card at her too, “Then go buy 'em and change! God, do I have to tell you to do  _everything?”_

She felt  herself blush  and managed  a  “Thanks,” and Junko rolled her eyes again, “Whatever! Hurry up!” 

So she did, but she had to ask, “Why?”

 

She should have known she wouldn't like the answer.

She could feel the bass in her bones, the air almost shuddering, and it was so much like being back  at war it was uncanny (she almost wished she was). The press of bodies around them, the low-angled lights and shadows, the deafening sounds. It felt dangerous and suffocating and Mukuro wanted to run. But Junko had her by the hand, smooth slender fingers laced with her callouses, dragging her into the thick of things  (like she always did) . Right into the middle of the dance floor, where she finally stopped, and Mukuro hoped maybe she could slink away soon, but Junko gave her arm a sharp  _jerk_ and Mukuro spun around right into her arms. 

Junko smiled, blood red lips ringing perfect teeth,  and  slipped up so close Mukuro could have sworn she was about to kiss her (or kill her) right there in the middle of everything, and she was so dizzy and lost she just completely froze. Junko laughed, those icy eyes locked with hers,  halfway between a purr and a growl, “Dance with me.”

Mukuro didn't know how to dance, but she knew not to disobey orders.

She moved stiffly, swaying with Junko as best she could, but anyone would look  clumsy next to someone so confident and fluid and gorgeous,  completely in her element. People stared (they always stared), whispered, pointed, someone snapped  a  photo to prove they'd spotted the famous Enoshima-san (and some nobody). Junko didn't care (but she noticed, of course), just grabbed her hands and twirled her again, and the smoke and lights all whirled around her and she almost fell over. She just managed to catch herself, gripping tightly to Junko's shoulders, and Junko laughed, rolling her eyes, “You're so fucking  _awkward._ Listen, we are having  _fun_ tonight.  Let's grab drinks. ”

Mukuro naively hoped she didn't mean alcohol (but she did, of course). The tender asked for her ID, and Junko had laughed, “Don't you know who I am?” and he didn't (which was very strange) but he learned pretty fast.  Some idiots drew in close,  baseball cap guy,  guy with the camera,  sunglasses indoors guy (Mukuro glared daggers at them all but they didn't pay her any attention) , hovering around Junko like suicidal moths, offering her drinks,  drugs, a ride, petty boasts, and Junko laughed her fake laugh and fluttered her fake lashes at  them and leaned in closer,  baring those pretty fangs,  and drove them off one by one with biting wit-- but camera guy stuck around.

He was too stupid to take the hint when Junko went for the throat, her saccharine drawl of “You're too much of a fucking loser to even look at me, sweetie” went right over his head, and he'd boasted that he could look as much as he want, he had a picture of her now, would she like to make more? Or maybe a video? Mukuro clenched her fists until her nails cut into her palms but Junko just rolled her eyes, bored now, looking for a new target. It wasn't fun if they didn't squirm. 

He trailed after them, answering all of Junko's increasingly vicious barbs with moronic quips and attempts at flirtation, even trading back a few choice insults (Mukuro growled low in her throat) but Junko just laughed and grabbed Mukuro's hand and threaded her way through the crowd, heading back to (oh, please, no) the dance floor. Her skin felt electric, eyes darting from person to person, threat assessment, it was too close and too loud in here,  _“Junko,”_ she hissed, urgently, and Junko sighed dramatically, throwing her hands in the air.

“ _Fine!”_

They slipped out through a backdoor, taking refuge in the dark and quiet alley, and Mukuro tried to breathe while Junko grumbled under her breath.

But  someone had followed, loudly, easy to hear,  especially when her  hackles were up  and she'd already felt ready to  fight at any second. Heavy, unsteady steps, quickening to catch up with them, an indignant “Hey!” (the guy with the camera, of course it was the  fucking guy with the camera) and he _reached for Junko_ and

Mukuro whipped around, wolf snarl on her lips as she launched herself at him, his fingers first, hearing the satisfying  _crack_ of fragile bones,  then a quick wrench and the deeper  _snap_ of a broken limb, using that leverage to pull herself close and drive  her knife deep into his throat and

and 

and that was too much force, he hadn't been a kill target, he hadn't been anyone, she wasn't on a mission, she wasn't in the field, she was home, wasn't she, she was home with

_Junko_

who  stared with such wide eyes,  like she'd just seen a monster (because she had)

( because Mukuro was still shivering with adrenaline and revulsion and pleasure )

and Mukuro  took a long breath, stepped back from the twitching corpse, mechanically wiped her prints, stomped the camera to bits, and  scrubbed uselessly, self-consciously, at the blood soaking into her  jacket (Junko  _just_ bought this for her), but eventually she  had to just  strip it off entirely and stuff it into her bag to burn later. 

And finally she was done, and she stood up and had to lean back immediately against the wall, knees weak and head spinning, but the cool stone helped, and so she took a tentative glance towards Junko.

“ _Muku-nee,”_ she breathed (Mukuro's heart thudded painfully) as she stepped delicately over the pooling blood, eyes shining and glassy, flushed and giddily grinning, “you _beast.”_

Mukuro bit her inner cheek, closed her eyes, and breathed, but Junko's hands clamped onto her shoulders and Junko's body pressed into hers and her lips captured Mukuro's and she kissed her like a starving animal and  she couldn't stop the growl,  she  tangled one hand in Junko's hair  and pulled her close with the other, and Junko purred into her mouth and twitched her hips against her, and Mukuro let out a strangled groan and clutched at her hard enough to leave a mark but (not here) broke out of the kiss, panting hard, just barely managing to whisper, “Junko--”

And Junko laughed breathlessly, pushing herself away, “ You always _always_ want to leave right when I'm having fun!” But she still laced her fingers with Mukuro's and set off towards home, and Mukuro swallowed hard and  followed  after her.


End file.
